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Saving Face
Surface The majority of the planet consists of thick, dark gray steel plating, interrupted by the occasional empty basin, basin-cum-ocean, and the massive cliffs in the distant north and south polar regions. Bisecting this area is the golden central trench. Though comparatively plain, there's no doubt that this is the exterior of a complex mechanism; plates of metal the size of Earth's tectonic plates fit together as smoothly as the armor of the Transformer it is. The gravitational and magnetic fields in this particular location allow for easier launching into orbit. The thunder of a returning flight of both Decepticons and Autobots fills the air, complete with the crackle several mission accomplished radios. Minding some of Fulcrum's admonitions, Fusillade takes the time to transform first before landing, settling down with the shock-absorbing benefit of anti-gravs. Something's annoying the Colonel, however, as a string of obscenities can be heard from her as she marches up to one of logisitical support units for Trypticon. "You!" she barks out as she jabs a finger at one of the operators, "Get me some degreaser and a deicing nozzle!" Jetfire gazes impassively at Fusillade as she storms past, he himself is perched atop a defense platform, polishing his left gauntlet of the grease that had built up while working. His optic band seems to be flickering madly, though the reason for this wouldn't be immediately apparent without foreknowledge of its datapad structure. In actual fact, he's scrolling through final data readouts on the repairs he just made to the defensive structure while also looking at Fusillade's stormy attitude. Behind his newly fashioned faceplate he smirks, a sensation he's become much more familiar with in the last days. Hopping down from the platform with an assisted boost from his booster jets which are currently deployed, he starts meandering Fusillade's direction. The dark light, and the closeness of the viscous fluid to her own color, makes it difficult at first to see what has Fusillade so worked up. However, streaking across her white portions is the faintly smelly liquid that had ignited so nicely when they had detonated Runabout's charges during the last mission. A hand snatches up to grab the nozzle of the air-pressurized, super-heated liquid, and it's with a mantra of 'ick ick ick you glitches got what you deserved ick ick' that she begins powerwashing the crud off of her form. The sound of the water is loud enough that the approach of the Autobot is masked. Fusillade leans one shoulder against the wall, sagging as a long, drawn out sigh emits over vents. Jetfire's visor starts flashing again as he draws to a stop about a dozen steps away, "Feel better?" he inquires, his voice thick with humor, "That's one good reason you shouldn't fly low unless you can evade. They'll start bursting like insects on a windshield." Gouts of steam billow about where the liquid scours her engine nacelle surfaces. A dirty look is sent Jetfire's way, but it relents when he speaks conversationally about destroying Sharkticons -- and whatever the smelt else it was that lived in Neocron's bowels. "Not quite," she says smugly, finally looking up as she braces her free hand on the wall to balance on one foot while she cleans the thruster turkeyfeathers of her other foot. "What is currently melting away before your visor in fact came from the veins of Neocron himself! We hit a junction there in the left leg-torso region, managed to nail a few key systems. Didn't punch through as nicely as I would have liked, but honestly, that would have required orbital strikes." Jetfire shakes his head slightly as the optic band continues to flicker, "Not orbital strikes. Breacher missiles." he reaches over his shoulder and disconnects one of the engine nacelles, "I now travel with two available to me..." he taps a mechanical release switch, and the launch door on the tip of the nacelle opens. He slides a large warhead (Easily the same size as his arm) out and hands it to Fusillade for inspection, "It's got a delayed detonator on it. You can set it to burrow a certain depth or wait a certain length of time. It'll drill straight through most surfaces, but not Neocron's armor. An exposed junction like you mentioned would be perfect however." the flickering in his optical band finally stops as the last of the scan is finished, and it might be vaguely noticeable that there are two orbs of light behind the visor, though it wouldn't be completely obvious. It's with some surprise that Fusillade takes the proffered missile in one hand, a faint 'gack' escaping her at the heft. Curling one arm around it, and peering at any of the flight surfaces that might be attached to it, she looks blissful for a brief moment. The water, easily hot enough to scald humans, continues pouring as that toothy grin begins to spread across her face. "You're letting me keep this, right?" she asks coyly, before nodding sharply. "There's a few around, but the defenses are getting better. First it's Guardian sized robots, then it's FLYING anorexic Sharkticons that cling to the damned walls after TEARING their own arms out the sides of their bodies! They're getting smarter about things." Jetfire nods once, "Yes. I will be distributing them to any and all who can carry them. My intention is to have a fleet of these breacher missiles deployed so that if we find ourselves in dire straights they can all be launched beneath the external armoring in the hopes of causing a large enough chain reaction to crush Neocron." the scan finished, the faceplate splits and retracts into his head as he turns to look off towards the ocean, "It's not a plan I'm particularly fond of, because many of us won't have time to escape if it comes to that." the cyan optics manage to convey a sense of sadness rather well, "Oh, and don't bother trying to reverse engineer the missile, that would cause a most unfortunate detonation. If the casing is cracked in any way the circuit will break and the detonator will drop." As Jetfire turns to the goo-encrusted baked Alaska that was the ocean, Fusillade flat out DROPS the pressurized nozzle, causing it to scatter across the ground briefly before a few technicians yelp and grab it. "Wait, you actually..." (Oh, don't be RUDE, there'll be time for that later. But it's later now, now can I be rude. Talk about the missions. Geeze those are really pale and bright, and too much white on his face. You have a missile in your arms, and you can keep it, STOP STARING and STOP formulating plans on how to make it less white! But they're, they're... SHHH he can hear us! Dumbass.) "...said yes?" She shifts weight, looking thoughtful. "Earthscorch is still dealing with a rebuild. Maybe Cyclonus... And hair trigger, mm? Maybe I'll just leave it in Shockwave's office." And then, silence. Saffron optics settle on Jetfire for a long moment. How could Sol compare to Sirius? Jetfire brings his optics back to Fusillade, "Indeed, it was a defense mechanism. I don't want to see them used against Metroplex when this war is over, though I'm sure Arachnae or Fulcrum could design something quite similar. I also wanted to be certain that if any Sharkticons were to try to stop it's progress, it'd go off right then and there, vaporizing them. It packs 6 of the proton explosives that make up the core of my own missile systems, along with an EMP burst. The combined effect of which will either incinerate or disable any and all mechanical beings.." he fixes her with a surprisingly pointed stare, "Be careful with it, I'd hate for you to be destroyed by it... from what I know of your structure, it will be able to mount in your primary weapons bay." Fusillade, despite herself, edges closer at the talk of weaponry, genuine delight as she shifts the weight of the WMD in both arms now, clutching it to her chest in much the same way a young child would hug and lift an adored pet by the neck. "Quite the piece of work you've made here. It's got to be very satisfying to both design AND fire these things. I couldn't imagine," she shakes her head, still steaming from the liberal washing. "And yeah, it'll fit." Despite looking terribly out-sized in relation to her current robot mode. Jetfire replies evenly, "Not really no. I'd much rather turn my attention to advances that hold real merit, rather than tools of destruction. But I do what I must to ensure the survival of my friends." his face seems to have settled into a slightly gloomy expression, apparently the emotions he hasn't had any trouble adjusting to, "Just be careful with it when you load it in. It'd be most unfortunate to lose a chunk of Trypticon when he's still needed." Dead End arrives from Trench to the north. Fusillade's expression darkens slightly at the discussion and mention of friends. "Yeah, wanna keep those Autobots kickin' around for a while. And your cityformers. It's an understandable motivation," she states coolly, even as she turns and wrist-flicks to summon a few lackeys for a proper cart to stow the missile. "MSE's going to string me up for not providing them with details on how this works, and there's a fair chance they'll refuse to equip without knowing the specifics. It's a risk," she states a bit more charitably, before trailing off, still silent in bewilderment at the distinct differences between Jetfire's cranium from that one time in the bar, and now. And yes, there's still that ongoing internal monologue/argument. Another glance is cast his way. "Just couldn't be satisfied with a new paint job, could you?" She finally gets to looking at the last of the detailing work to make sure that none of the spilt Neocron fluids are gunking up the internals closest to the seams of her panels. Jetfire replies, "I have refined my physical shape to improve performance across the board." he replies, "If MSE refuses to use the weapon, that is hardly my problem. Just remember who it is that will have caused the downfall of our race if there aren't enough breachers to deploy for an effective strike, assuming it comes to that." he turns and moves off towards Metroplex, "Good day, Colonel Fusillade." "What the smelt does... LIPS have to do with it?!" Fusillade practically windmills her arms in consternation as she yells at the retreating Guardian. "Smug cuss," she grumbles out to herself, before turning back to see why Fleet was being unfleet with filing the AAR. Dead End hovers up out of a nearby crevasse slowly and quite cautiously, his optical band peaking up over the precipice to have a look around. Noticing Fusillade, he emits a quiet, "Hmmm," before he hovers fully out of the depression in Neocron's surface. He tries to keep behind her, hovering slowly (and quietly) towards Trypticon. Jetfire turns and walks backwards as he replies, "All the better to smirk triumphantly at you the next time I deposit you in the ocean." before he trundles up the ramp into Metroplex.